Without you
by Ms.Brightside SH
Summary: Set post Reichenbach. What if Sherlock actually killed himself and John isn't able to cope? Mention of suicide. Could be seen as Johnlock, but (I never thought I'd ever say this) that's really not what this is about. My first attempt to write Angst.


**Without you**

_AN: This story is dedicated to my amazing beta, Sherlock'sScarf, who found the time to look this through although she has quite a lot to do with RL at the moment. _

_Also, to fantasybean, who made me write this in the first place by kicking my lazy arse, and who is in general a beautiful person and friend._

_Thanks so much to you both!_

_This is my first attempt at Angst, so if anyone has any constructive critic, it is more than welcome._

_As are reviews in general, of course._

_The parts in italic are quotes from songs by Rise Against and Breaking Benjamin._

_I don't own Sherlock, and after having written this story, I think that's rather for the better..._

There are so many kinds of sadness.

It can be silent, personal, hidden. Just single tears, lonely, shining. There is even a certain beauty there. The expression of deep and honest pain.

It can be loud, desperate. Screaming and sobbing and simply overwhelming. Not able to accept. Not wanting to believe.

It can be lost. That's the most hurtful to look at. When there's nothing there, nothing left, just the numbness. When it's beyond tears. That's the kind that shakes you to the core. That's the kind of grief that may never really leave again.

As a doctor, John Watson had seen a lot of sadness in his life. Especially in Afghanistan, after failed missions, accidents that were bound to happen one day. It had more often than not been his job to tell the others, his comrades, who had sometimes waited outside the medical tent for hours, that their friend had died, or would never walk or speak or be able to see again.

It was expected that he spoke to families, explained what had happened, why he hadn't been able to save their son, daughter, father, mother.

He had noticed, over time, that the second kind of sadness seemed to be the usual reaction.

Most people seemed to grieve like that, loud and open and not able to process it otherwise, not able to cope unless they shoved it all away, refusing to believe what was undeniably the truth.

The first kind of sadness was often expressed by people who had been very close to the dead or injured person in question. They couldn't share their pain with anyone, silently but still obviously mourning. They were usually the most collected, still having to take matters in hand at times, organizing a funeral or raising money for a life filled with medication and the need of care, or whatever it was that came after the accident or death of a person you were closely related to.

John had always marvelled at how calm they seemed, accepting the inevitable.

He had seen very, very few people experiencing the third kind of sadness. It didn't happen often, this point-of-no-return thing where your life morphed into something different and would never be the way it had been before.

_Before. _It was a term they often used in conversations, these incurables that couldn't let go.

If there was a rule to when this kind of grief occurred, John had seen too little cases to find it.

A mother who had lost her eight year old daughter to cancer.

A teenage boy whose twin brother hadn't returned from a camping trip.

An old woman whose husband had died after years and years of heart weakness.

It didn't seem to matter if the person was young or old, if their death had been all of a sudden or known as the most probable outcome for a long time.

To be honest, John hadn't tried very hard to find similarities. As ashamed as it made him feel, he had always wanted to get away as soon as possible.

John had never understood those people. He had never understood how one could just glide into numbness like that. So he hadn't noticed it happening to himself at first, although the numbness had started to spread through his body when he first saw Sherlock's battered in skull and his blood on the pavement. He hadn't acknowledged it later, when he had realized that there were no tears for him.

It hadn't held him back from moving out of 221B Baker Street, from going to the therapy, from trying to go on with his life, because that was what people _did._ Coping.

_Wake me up inside_

He had only known Sherlock for eighteen months, after all.

_Tell me there's a reason._

But it hadn't become easier, only harder.

_To take another step_

_To get up off my knees_

It wasn't at all like he had felt when coming home from the war. Home. He didn't know where that was any more. In Afghanistan, he had always dreamed of London. In London, he hadn't been so sure any more. But then he had met _him_, had met his excitement and his danger and there hadn't been any doubt that this was where he belonged.

Maybe Baker Street was home. Maybe he should go there again, visit Mrs Hudson. It didn't sound like a bad idea, not at all frightening. He had even said it aloud, to Ella. But he never did.

Another thing that was different than coming back to London was the dreams.

_All because of you, I haven't slept in so long._

It was true; he had problems sleeping now, too. But not out of fear of what would await him in his head when he fell asleep. He just couldn't go to sleep. He felt more asleep when he was awake than when he actually slept.

_Wake me when it's through_

His dreams nowadays usually featured Sherlock in his last minutes, talking to him, stretching out his hand, jumping. Being gone was never the issue; it all seemed open somehow, as if the outcome might still be another, and even when he saw Sherlock lying dead again, the horror felt so much more real than the ever growing empty hole inside him.

_Don't worry, I'll be fine_

He was sure he would be all right.

_Just don't want this dream_

If only he kept on living.

_I spent my time here alive, but barely there_

It was just so hard.

_I can't find my way to you_

Ella told him it was time to do things again. Nothing challenging, like work. Simply meet somebody. Harry? Greg? He told her he would. He sincerely believed it. When he arrived at his flat, he had already forgotten about it.

_Alone I stand, a broken man_

He tried walks in the park, like he had _before. _Missing Sherlock felt natural by now, like the strain in his shoulder or the weakness in his leg.

_Pain so familiar and close to the heart_

"You have to start living again," Ella said one day, as if they both knew it. He blinked at her. Wasn't that what he was doing all the time?

_I have nothing left_

He woke one night and realized how true that was. There was nothing without Sherlock, nothing.

_I can't face the dark without you_

And strangely, that didn't upset him.

_Wake me up inside_

He would never stop dreaming this dream, this dream that everyone told him was reality.

Unless someone woke him. Someone. Sherlock.

_All because of you_

He got up, surprised at how easy it suddenly was.

_Search for the answers I knew all along_

Why didn't he think of this earlier?

"Because you're an idiot,'' the familiar voice in his head said, and for the first time since he had last spoken to Sherlock, he smiled.

He suddenly felt tired, but in a good way, in an I-know-I-can-soon-truly-rest way.

_Longing for the shore where I can lay my head down_

_Inside these arms of yours_

John dressed and took his time with it. He had time now. The rest of his life. He even giggled slightly at that.

_No more, no less, I won't forget_

Walking felt good once more. He breathed in the night air like he used to _before. _It felt a lot like _before_ again. Like he would only have to look around the next corner and would see Sherlock there, impatient, but waiting. _Soon._

The way to St. Bart's Hospital took him longer than he had expected. Not that he cared.

_There's nothing left to lose_

The doors weren't locked. Maybe someone was still working. Maybe someone had started again. Maybe it was just part of the dream. It didn't matter. He climbed the stairs, one at the time, meeting no one. He emerged onto the rooftop. Everything was clean now, no blood from Moriarty, no shattered phone. It didn't matter. He stepped to the edge and looked directly into the blindingly bright sun that was just rising. His head was spinning.

_I won't turn my back on you_

He took a deep breath.

_Take my hand, drag me down_

Just one more step.

_If you fall, then I will too_

He fell. If Sherlock had still been alive, somehow, one more miracle, he would have appeared now. Would have snatched John by the hand, dragged him back. But he didn't. He really was gone.

_So am I, _John thought. Then a short, all-consuming pain, and blackness.

He slowly opened his eyes. It wasn't dark; there was a grey, foggy light, with no apparent source.

He closed his eyes. Blackness. He opened them again. The foggy light was unchanged, but there was a shadow, coming closer. John got up, only then realizing that he had lain on the ground that didn't feel like any ground he knew. The shadow was close enough to make out his shape now.

_All because of you_

John took a careful step. Then another.

"Sherlock?" he carefully asked. The shadow wasn't a shadow at all any more. It – he – looked at John, expression so familiar.

"Obviously." Sherlock said.

_All because of you_

_I believe in angels_

They faced each other now, but it wasn't enough. John took another step.

_Not the kind with wings_

_No, not the kind with halos_

Sherlock raised his arms as if that was something they had done often. Maybe they had. John didn't hesitate for one second. Sherlock closed his arms around him, and finally, finally, he was safe.

_The kind that bring you home_

Home.

"It's been awfully dull here without you." Sherlock murmured into John's hair.

_I am with you, forever, the end_

_AN: Yup, another one, so sorry. You don't need to read this._

_I just wanted to say that I do not want to offend anyone with this description of afterlife. It doesn't_

_even have to be that; John could be in a coma, too. Imagine whatever you like :)_


End file.
